


Twin Size Mattress

by goflecks



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Underage Drinking, and im not sure i’m prepared to be the one to taint it, and peter being drunk mom, bed sharing, cause it’s what i squeezed out when i had writers block, im usually a self proclaimed smut lord but this pairing has literally no smut, neck kisses, oh and, sam being drunk and stupid, so just take whatever the fuck this is, using the tags as a diary here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 11:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goflecks/pseuds/goflecks
Summary: Peter: You okay, Sammy?The pet name is reserved for three scenarios; when Sam is sad, when Peter really wants something, and when Sam is sick.  He supposes this counts as both the second and the third one.  Because he’s getting Sam away from that party before he does any dumb shit.  That’s the decision he’s made as the designated mom of this relationship.





	Twin Size Mattress

**Author's Note:**

> i didn’t mean to write for this pairing but it just happened. i liked it though, and i love these boys, and i promise (loosely) that eventually i’ll write some eldonado that isn’t so fucking plotless. this is just them pointlessly being cute disaster gays, which is kinda their thing i guess, so...fair.

Peter isn’t usually awake at 2am.

Tonight isn’t an exception, but he does sleep with his phone right next to his face (possibly because he hates himself? The notifications that wake him up are seldom worth opening his eyes for.), so when he starts getting a FaceTime call at exactly 2:13 in the morning, he’s immediately scrambling to grab his phone and rip it off the charger. It’s a sort of weird reactionary thing. Like, he was dead asleep, but his brain just tells him that answering is completely urgent and his body follows suit. He’s glad for it, really, because when he picks up, it’s the one person whose decision to wake him up in the middle of the night doesn’t actually piss him off.

“Peter!”

Peter’s response is delayed by a yawn, his mouth opening widely as he scrambles for his glasses with his free hand. “Mmm, yeah, Sam. What’s going on?  You okay?”

“Ohhhhh, sorry. I wake you up?”

Peter makes a sleepy noise in response, positioning his glasses correctly on his face and fighting to open his eyes fully. The screen burns, even though Sam is clearly in the dark. “Yeah, yeah, it’s cool though. What’s up?”

“Just wanted to talk to you,” Sam replies, and Peter’s not sure what gives it away — maybe it’s the way his voice sounds or the look on his face or the returning memory that he was gonna be going to a party tonight, perhaps all three — but it hits him all at once that Sam is fucking _wasted_  right now.

Peter laughs a little, settling back into bed and getting comfortable. “Well, go for it. I’m awake now.”

He smiles as Sam starts going on a tangent about something that happened at the party, half listening to all the terrifying albeit hilarious details of the event, and half just looking at the faces Sam is making which are equally amusing. It’s like this sometimes, as of late. Sam likes social events much more than Peter ever has, and since they both started college at CSU, Sam has been privy to all the best parties, and attended the majority of them. Peter has even humored him and gone to a few, and even though he had fun on all the occasions in question, he still prefers being in bed by midnight to being drunk and staying up past his bedtime. He’s just boring like that, he supposes.

“And then, uhh...” Sam trails off, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You okay?” Peter asks, eyebrow raised slightly.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Sam replies, voice much smaller and meeker than it was moments ago. And if Peter knows Sam at all, then yes, that voice means he’s about to puke. He suddenly wishes he could jump through the phone and do something, because Sam has gone from looking like he’s having fun to looking like absolute shit in a matter of moments.

“Hey, okay,” Peter says softly, as comfortingly as he can muster when he’s still partially asleep, “take deep breaths, alright? Just—“

He’s cut off by the sound of Sam retching, which is honestly super gross, but at least he doesn’t have to watch it happen because Sam doubles forward out of frame, and then immediately ends the call.

And maybe he’s a little overprotective, he can accept that title, but Peter is fucking worried. He reaches over to turn on the lamp at his bedside, then navigates to his messages, tapping out a text as quickly as his thumbs will allow.

_You okay, Sammy?_

The pet name is reserved for three scenarios; when Sam is sad, when Peter really wants something, and when Sam is sick. He supposes this counts as both the second and the third one. Because he’s getting Sam away from that party before he does any dumb shit. That’s the decision he’s made as the designated mom of this relationship.

He’s relieved to see three dots pop up, indicating that Sam hasn’t passed out in a pool of his own vomit. So that’s a good sign.

 **_yeah yeah i’m gucci_ **  
**_i just wiped my mouth with a leaf tho lmaooooo_ **

Peter snickers in spite of himself as he types out his response.

_Can I come pick you up?  Please?_

_**why?  you tryna take advantage of me?????** _  
_**cause i’m down ;)** _

_Seriously, Sammy.  Can you send me your location?_

_**ugh fine**_  
_**DAD**_  
_**boring ass dad**_

Peter chooses to ignore that in favor of clicking on the GPS point that’s quickly sent to him, opening it up in Maps. Maybe it’s a bit of a bad decision to drive when he’s this sleepy, but his mind is already made up; Sam is coming to his house, drinking some water, and sleeping for as long as he needs.

He just doesn’t like the idea of him being alone when he’s like this. It’s not that Peter doesn’t trust Sam to make decent decisions for himself, because he does, but Peter is an obsessive worrier (see; anxiety), and knowing that Sam is drunk enough to be puking and wiping his mouth with leaves, and more importantly that he’s alone in that situation, is enough to make Peter feel sick in the pit of his own stomach. He wants to let Sam have fun and all, and do his thing, cause you know, Peter is _just_  his best friend, not his parent or anything, and he’s a grown ass adult, but this is where he draws the line. Sam is just way too vulnerable and Peter is way too much of a control freak to not take the reins in this situation.

So he hops out of bed and frantically throws on his socks, stuffing his phone in the pocket of his pajama bottoms and deciding that there’s no real reason to actually get dressed. He’s just jumping in the car, driving for twenty minutes and coming right back home. He can look homeless if he damn well pleases.

He makes as little noise as possible sneaking out his front door, and then runs to his car and flicks the auto lights off so he doesn’t wake God and everybody up on his way out the driveway. He can explain to his mom in the morning that he picked Sam up at a party so he wouldn’t die of alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t have enough energy to do it right now.

All he has the energy to do is be worried about Sam and do something about it.

The drive feels like it takes forever even though Peter is sort of kind of speeding (usually he goes 45 in a 40 but right now he’s going a good 48), because he can’t stop thinking about Sam being over there by himself throwing up in someone’s yard. He doesn’t even know whose house he’s at, now that he thinks about it, because it’s not on campus and it’s not in Oceanside, and it’s in a neighborhood he’s never been in before, and that just makes him even more nervous. He doesn’t know what kinds of people are there and he doesn’t know what’s happening at that party and _Jesus_ , people could be doing drugs and shit and fuck it he’s hitting his gas pedal and making the jump to 50. He just wants Sam in his passenger seat where he belongs.

It eases Peter’s mind a little that when he pulls up to the house (a duplex, which is slightly concerning, because, like, what are their neighbors thinking?), Sam is already sitting on the front stoop waiting for him. Peter leaves his car idling at the curb and hops out, jogging over to where Sam sits and kneeling down in front of him.

“Hey. Come on,” he says with all the softness he can muster. He doesn’t have to fake it really, to be honest. It comes easily, because Sam just seems so vulnerable like this, and Peter’s baby voice only seems natural. It’s a voice reserved only for drunk people, dogs, and actual fucking babies.

Sam looks up from his phone and meets Peter’s eyes, grinning from ear to ear. Like a baby, Sam is uncharacteristically happy to see him.

“Okay,” he agrees, voice languid like honey, and Peter holds out a hand to help him up, which he gratefully accepts. He stumbles a bit when he’s on his feet and Peter quickly grabs for his side, steadying him by the fabric of his shirt.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asks softly as they walk side by side to his car, and he reaches out to open the door for Sam, because he’s not sure it’ll be an easy task for him right now.

“Fuckin’ great,” Sam assures, grinning as Peter gently pushes him into the car and flopping against the upholstery. “I puked like, twice, and then I started drinking more, so I’m goooood.”

“That...sounds like a bad idea,” Peter observes, shutting the door before Sam can argue his point and running around the front of the car to get into his own seat.

He fiddles with his phone a moment, first checking his texts as if anyone is going to be trying to get ahold of him at this hour (they’re not), then pulling up Spotify and handing it over to Sam, who distractedly takes it from his hands.

“Put on whatever you want,” Peter instructs, which he knows and Sam knows is his language for ‘I really care about you, don’t forget that’. Peter seldom lets anyone operate the aux in his car, and is even less inclined to let Sam put on ‘whatever he wants’, because that really opens the floodgates to a lot of garbage that he can’t even imagine. But Sam is drunk, and he clearly still wants to party, so if Peter can consolidate that party to the safety and confines of his 2005 Monte Carlo then he’ll do what he has to do. As long as it means Sam is safe, he’ll suffer through French Montana.

Which is exactly what he puts on by the way, and even turns the volume up for good measure. Peter doesn’t really have time to hate it because every time he glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye, he’s smiling and moving his hands to the music as he sings along, and that along with the road wins all of Peter’s attention.

The drive feels all too short this time even though Peter is actually going the speed limit. Sam keeps babbling about shit over the blaring music and he’s laughing about _everything_  and Peter has seen him drunk plenty of times, sure, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him quite this fucked up. It’s endearing, really, now that he doesn’t have to worry so much about Sam’s actions and whereabouts, and even under the white lights of the street lamps as they pass them he can see the flush in his face and the warmth of his smile and he’s reminded all over again just _how much_  he cares for his best friend. Like an insane amount. Like a borderline gay amount, which he’s been actively ignoring for a while now. Because it’s just easier to accept Sam as being _Sam_  and not as being anything to him in particular. But right now he’s just really cute, Peter will admit that, even if it’s only to himself.

By the time they pull into Peter’s driveway, it’s a little past three and Sam is starting to wind down. He looks sort of sleepy now, which Peter is grateful for, because he really doesn’t want Sam laughing and screaming and waking his mom up at the moment. He still wants to stick to the plan of telling his mom later, if he ever even tells her at all. Right now he’s just focused on keeping Sam in one piece and keeping him from puking on anything again.

But maybe not waking his mom up is wishful thinking. Because as soon as they’re in the door Sam is clamoring around like...well, like a drunken idiot. He smacks into the table in the entryway and lets out a nasally, snickering laugh, and Peter shushes him through laughter of his own. Then, he trips on the stairs (Peter catches him), and laughs a little too loudly and for a little too long about it. If his mom notices though, she doesn’t let on, and they manage to make it up to Peter’s room and shut the door behind them without serious incident.

Sam rushes over and flops down on Peter’s unmade bed, still laughing, presumably about tripping on the stairs which really wasn’t that funny but it’s kind of funny that he _thinks_  it’s so funny, so whatever. Peter follows more slowly, sitting down next to him and reaching for a bottle of water that sits on his bedside table. He’s already taken a drink or two out of it but...well, it’ll do.

He prods Sam’s side gently with the cap, earning another small fit of giggles for this time, no discernible reason. “Hey. Drink this.”

“But then I’d have to _move_ ,” Sam whines, throwing his arms above his head and sprawling out like a cat in the sun. Maybe like one that’s had too much catnip and is all hopped up.

Peter smiles slightly and accepts defeat for now, dropping the water bottle next to Sam’s body with a dull thud. They both go quiet for a moment, and Peter actually thinks Sam might be asleep, which is less than desirable because he’s taking up, like, half of the bed and Peter is pretty sure that if he’s out he’s _out_ , but then Sam speaks, voice small and sleepy.

“I don’t feel good.”

Peter shifts where he’s sitting, pretty sleepy himself, and turns to look at Sam. He can’t see his face well with the way he’s laying, and he wishes that he could so he could read his expression. “Are you gonna throw up again? Cause if you are—“

“No, I don’t think so. I just feel gross.”

Peter believes him, because that really doesn’t sound like his About To Puke voice, and he sits up a bit more, reaching under his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Well, come up here and lay in bed like a normal person. You just need to sleep.”

He almost think Sam isn’t going to listen to him for a second, because he just lays there quietly, but then he feels the mattress shifting under him and Sam is crawling up to the pillows, slumping against Peter’s sheets with a grunt. Peter settles in next to him, grabbing the blankets and pulling them over the both of them. Which is easier said than done because Sam is basically dead weight at this point, and he has to tug at the comforter to pull it out from under his body and up over it instead.

Sam hums softly, and he sounds comfortable, so Peter reaches to flick off the lamp that he’d turned on before he left, plunging the room into darkness and curling up under the covers.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, rolling a bit so that he’s facing Peter.

Peter takes his glasses off, setting them down next to the lamp. “Yeah?”

“Will you hold me? I really don’t feel good.”

Peter lets out a breath through his nose, smiling slightly to himself. Because as much of a pain in the ass as drunk Sam is, he’s also really cute. Just as cute as sober Sam, just in a different way.

“C’mere,” Peter urges, opening his arms as an invitation. He feels Sam struggle over and plop down on his chest, so hard he almost knocks the wind out of him. But it’s okay, because Sam is warm, warmer than he supposes he would usually be because of all the alcohol in his system, and he settles more comfortably on Peter’s chest, tucking his head up under his chin.

Peter wraps his arms around him gently, hesitantly, like if he touches too enthusiastically Sam will change his mind. And really this is all fucking surreal, like here he is laying in his bed cuddling Sam, and he’s his best friend so physical contact isn’t exactly abnormal, but this feels so intimate right now. Sam is doing this thing that’s almost like _nuzzling_  every time he tries to get fully comfortable and Peter is tightening his arms around him with each little movement as he grows more comfortable and...it’s just weird. But it’s nice. And it makes it somehow better that Peter is getting to do this because Sam _needs_  him in a way, that he’s comforting him and making him feel better when he’s not doing well. Even if the fact that he isn’t doing well is pretty much his own fault. That doesn’t really matter, honestly.

Peter can feel Sam’s breath against the collar of his shirt and he sighs softly, trying to settle down, because he was so tired moments ago but now he feels like he can’t even close his eyes. Doesn’t want to, maybe. He just wants to take in this moment and enjoy every second of it and enjoy the way that Sam’s hand is resting on his torso and enjoy the way that Sam’s hair is tickling his chin and enjoy the warm feeling in his chest at the fact that he’s touching him so affectionately right now.

And he knows it’s only because Sam is drunk that this is happening, but he’ll take what he can get.

“You feeling okay?” Peter asks after a moment, softly because Sam is so close and the air is so still that there’s no reason to speak in anything above a whisper. He doesn’t want to have to sit on the knowledge that Sam still isn’t feeling good, and honestly he’s still a little concerned about the possibility of him throwing up. He really doesn’t know how he would recover from Sam puking on his chest. That would be like, genuinely traumatizing.

Sam just nods, curling a bit closer to Peter and sighing softly. “Yeah, I’m good.” He pauses a moment, like he’s done speaking, but then he adds softly, “This is nice.”

His voice is muffled by Peter’s chest and he doesn’t know how to express enough that he _completely_  shares the sentiment.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, a smile dancing on his lips.

“Why don’t we cuddle more often?” Sam drawls, his voice slurred with a mixture of intoxication and sleepiness. And he asks it as if it’s the most casual question ever, like, ‘do you want fries with that?’. Peter supposes that maybe it is. Because if this feels so great then why don’t they do it all the time? It’s nice to think that Sam presumably enjoys this just as much as he does.

“Cause you’ve never been this drunk,” Peter says honestly, because really, Sam is needy and he’s a big baby and not being sober just amplifies it.  

Sam hums softly, leaning harder into Peter’s chest, like he wants to be closer even though there’s no space left between them. “We should. Cuddle more,” he murmurs.

“Okay. Sure.”

And Peter thinks it might be an empty promise, because he doesn’t expect Sam to want to snuggle with him in any other situation than this — being drunk and needy and feeling like hell — but it seems to appease Sam, who sighs contentedly and leans his head further against Peter’s neck. It can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t complain.

They’re silent again for a long time, Sam’s breath warm and steady against Peter’s skin, and he’s convinced once again that he’s fallen asleep, because he just sounds so peaceful. But then he speaks again, and the sound is so unexpected that Peter jumps a bit.

”Can I kiss your neck?”

And okay, Peter has to mull that one over for a second.

” _What_?” he asks, voice still little more than a whisper, because it’s so out of nowhere and so uncharacteristic that he’s not even sure if he heard him right.

”I just wanna— uhh..” Sam trails off for a moment, almost like he lost his train of thought, but Peter’s pretty sure that he’s just trying to figure out how to use his mouth to make words.

“Want to,” he says finally, which answers absolutely zero of Peter’s questions.

”Sam,” Peter says flatly, and then he catches the harshness in his tone and tries to dial it back a bit. Drunk Sam is just as inclined towards crying as he seems to be towards cuddling, and Peter knows that for a fact. “You are _drunk_.”

Sam giggles softly against his neck, and Peter thinks he wouldn’t actually mind if he kissed it.

”Yeah, I know. But like... Can I?”

Does Peter find it endearing that even when he’s trashed, Sam is asking nicely to cross a bunch of boundaries? Absolutely. Does he want to say no? Not really.

There’s a million reasons that he ought to brush Sam off and tell him to just go to sleep. Peter doesn’t know what’s happening, he doesn’t know where this would go, he doesn’t want their friendship to change as a result. The list could go on and on. But he can already feel Sam’s lips brushing against his skin, like he’s waiting for the go ahead and pushing the envelope in the process, and none of those reasons seem all that pressing right now.

Peter sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out as he speaks. “Yeah. Okay. Just bear in mind that you’re the one who accused  _me_ of taking advantage of  _you_.”

Sam laughs softly, immediately accepting his invitation and pressing a light kiss to Peter’s neck, just above his collar. It sends a shiver coursing through him, and he tightens his arms around Sam’s waist, because  _okay_ , that’s kinda...yeah.

”I’m not taking advantage,” he insists. “What’dya think I’m trying to do?”

“I literally have no idea what you’re trying to do,” Peter murmurs, but he figures that maybe he shouldn’t complain, because Sam’s lips are  _really_ soft being that he’s got to be completely dehydrated right now, and the kisses feel nice, despite the fact that they’re making everything really confusing right now.

Sam presses another couple of light kisses to Peter’s neck, warm and gentle and slow, and then he slumps back down against his chest, laughing a little bit.

“Okay, yeah, I’m really drunk,” Sam admits, his voice muffled by Peter’s shirt, and he’s almost relieved that Sam decided to quit, because...well, because he liked it. A lot. More than he wants to deal with right now.

”Then _sleep_ ,” Peter urges, repositioning his arms around Sam’s body, and Sam sighs deeply, blowing hot breath against Peter’s neck, which he’s suddenly hyper-aware of. It makes him shiver again and he bites back the urge to ask Sam to keep going. ‘Cause that would be like, completely fucking contradictory.

”Yeah, I’m gonna sleep.”

”Good.”

When they wake up in the morning though, Sam kisses Peter’s neck again, and this time, he has no reason to stop him.

He doesn’t really want to anyways, so it’s cool.


End file.
